"Indian Matchmaking" Reactions III

Rejection. It sucks. 

It's also a large part of dating, whether one is the rejector or the rejectee. Either way, it's not pleasant. 

In my dating years, I was beyond stressed about rejecting someone. For the most part, I could tell off the bat that it wasn't shayach and felt no need to go on a second date. It wasn't until I found out from my dating kinfauna that there is an "obligatory" two-date minimum, to which I respond, "Whah?" 

I had thought, that if I knew this wasn't going anywhere, why raise someone else's hopes up needlessly with another date? Because here's the thing: there is no way to make rejection better. A "no" after two dates isn't more palatable than a "no" after one. I'm saying this from the other side, that rejection sucks, plain and simple. 

On the show, there were two examples of people who were both in the position of rejector and rejectee: Nadia and Vinesh. 

Nadia had been seeing Shekar, who is considered to be a nice, steady guy. But then Vishal walks into a mixer, and well . . . let's just say Vishal is striking. He's tall, gorgeous, and has the same cheerful energy Nadia is known for. But he's seven years younger than her.

So Nadia starts claiming that Shekar didn't seem to be that interested, and calls him to break up with him. She even tells him that she felt like he was "rejecting" her. Shekar seems blindsided, and denies it, but ultimately accepts her decision with grace. He then hangs up the phone and cries. 

Nadia is then bouncing along with Vishal, happy as a clam, until he flies out to see her. She is looking at him with excitement and expectation. He does not look at her the same way. He then proceeds to break up with her. 

Nadia, stunned, does not accept his decision gracefully. She snaps and snarls. Initially, I was taken with her sassiness. But then recalled: she rejected Shekar, and hoped he would take it ok. Yet when she is rejected, the claws come out. 

Well well. 

Then there is Vinesh. Vinesh is cheerful, loud, and jokes a lot (his jokes are not always funny). He is first matched with Mosum, who matches his energy, but she's not so focused on appearances. Vinesh asks her for her number after they meet, but then tells the screen that he asked for it to be polite, that he does not intend to date her (he does know that Mosum will hear this, right? This is international programming). 

Later, he's set up Meena, who, dare I say it, is smokin'. From her perfectly blown hair, fake lashes, and low cut cleavage, she is striking. But it's obvious that she does not appreciate Vinesh's humor. Vinesh, smitten with her looks, proclaims that the date went well, while Meena thinks otherwise. 

When told that Meena felt "friendship rather than romance" (this is the show code for "no way Jose"), Vinesh looks stricken. It takes him a few minutes to recover. 

It seems, for both these people, it's perfectly reasonable to be the rejector. After all, if it's not meant to be, if they're not feeling it, they just gotta be honest, y'know? They don't give the other people much thought. But when they're being rejected . . . it's a whole other ball game. REJECTION SUCKS. 

Rejection, in all forms, sucks. It sucks when you try to talk to someone new and they scurry away from you. It sucks when you apply to a school and they don't accept you. It sucks when your credit card gets rejected. It just sucks, overall. 

There are some people who so don't want to reject someone else that they just marry them. That really could have been me, if there wasn't a shadchan to do my dirty work. I would not have survived to have a happy union if I had to tell someone directly "I like you like a friend." 

So while there are times when rejection is necessary, please remember: try to be as kind as possible.

"Indian Matchmaking" Reactions II

Pradhyuman was a problem in Season 1. He was, by all accounts, too picky. Siiiigh. 

He was unrealistic. He was too demanding. He did not understand that he cannot get everything. He rejected 150 suggestions (I think that's less than Han dated).

At the end of the season, he FINALLY goes out with someone who looks compatible, and the music swells hopefully. But as the credits roll, we're informed that it didn't take.

Ay, Pradhyuman. What are we to do with you? Tsk tsk. 

Then, much to my surprise, Season 2 opens with Pradhyuman beaming, gushing about his girlfriend that he met at a party. He's floating on air. 

A few episodes in, he eagerly prepares the engagement setup—with no one shoving him—and of his own free will, proposes to his beloved. 

Huh.

Now, I gotta admit, I had been a nay-sayer. I had also thought that Pradhyuman was one of those really impossible ones that will end up alone with his cats because he's just not being amenable. 

But here we are, with him blissfully committed. 

There are numerous stories like this, about seemingly "impossible" singles, who everyone sighs and moans and predicts doom and gloom and then—the moon hits their eye like a big pizza pie and it's AMORE. 

Maybe they weren't being impossible. Maybe they were just . . . waiting for the right one.    

"Indian Matchmaking" Reactions, I

A new season of "Indian Matchmaking" has arrived, and I plowed through it. Luckily Anakin finds it entertaining. 

The new season opens with Akshay, who lives in the Indian equivalent of Yehupitz. The family business is based there, so he cannot relocate. Both he and Sima the Matchmaker agree it's difficult for him "because the girls don't want to be in" Yehupitz, "they all want to live in the big cities." Dramatic sigh. 

Generalizations. They rankle me. 

Perhaps because I had been constantly lumped into generalizations, that because I was single and a certain age I was automatically picky, that I was unrealistically demanding this or that, that I must have, I must have, I must have—no, I wasn't. I wasn't. 

Additionally, I was constantly told that the man I was on the search for, with 2.5 criteria, did not exist. There are no boys like that, I was repeatedly told. 

So even when a semi-scripted reality show starts spouting generalizations, I get annoyed. It still—still!—gets under my skin. 

Because, seriously, in ALL OF INDIA there isn't ONE or TWO or maybe ONE HUNDRED women who would be willing to live in a small, cozy, warm community? Heck, enough of our own people want to live out-of-town, and we're a pretty small minority, as opposed to a country with one BILLION people. 

I was trying to set up an acquaintance, and on the phone with her I was stunned that she had pretty much the same criteria as me, maybe 1.5. (I refuse to count "normal" as criteria.) I felt compelled to reassure her that I got what I was looking for, it's not unheard of or impossible. Because yes, men like my husband exist, the same way I exist. 

All May Be Well, But . . .

I follow @iwassupposedtohaveababy on Instagram, even though, B'H, that is not my concern. But I feel a vague sort of kinship to women who waited years for something that others seemed to have attained with ease. 

(Disclaimer: I am in no way comparing my situation to that for those struggling with infertility.) 

I did a little googling on the creator of the account, who expresses raw emotion at times, even posting reels of herself crying. So I was surprised to learn that she had, B'H, overcome her infertility struggles and B'H has a bouncing family. 

Initially, I was confused—if she has her children, why does she still carry such sadness? 

But then I remembered: 

"All's well that ends well" isn't quite true. You read this blog, hearing me still complain about my single years, how I was treated, how much it hurt, and maybe some of you wonder, "She's married now, she has kids, maybe she should let it go"? 

It's not so easy to let go of pain. 

I was once venting to my sister about relatives who live in a bustling, interconnected community, and how they had never attempted to set me up, even though they had tried for other people. 

She said, puzzled, "But you're married now. To Han. Who isn't even from their area. So it all worked out anyway." 

"That's not the point. When I was in it, when I was desperate for a suggestion, when the phone wasn't ringing . . . it hurt when they would gush about a shidduch they were trying for someone else, and not for me. Never for me." 

When I see the people who insulted me in the past, it's hard to get over what they thought of me then. Do they find me acceptable now that I'm married? Maybe. Well, I don't care, and would prefer not to interact with you, buh-byeeeeee. 

For those who have experienced pregnancy loss, people (including me) can mistakenly believe that with the arrival of other children, the previous ones were simply "replaced." But she lost a child. The child may not have been viable, the child may never have drawn breath, but that child was still loved, cherished . . . and lost. Those children cannot be replaced, anymore than my mother could be replaced with a stepmother. People are not interchangeable.

Shidduch Lit: Italian for Beginners

I've become impossible to please when it comes to romantic fluff. 

The basic structure of such a novel is to involve a very easily avoidable misunderstanding. Like, seriously, a five-year-old could have navigated this successfully. And Italian for Beginners is no different. 

Additionally, it has that annoying trope of "busy American who doesn't know how to live visits an exotic locale, imbibes the wisdom of the natives (who are all waiters, and yet live in lovely apartments), and discovers the meaning of life." 

However, the book had enough relatability that I will plug it here. 

Not to give a spoiler here, so if you don't want one then do not read on, but our heroine is a single woman in her mid-30s who has become the despair of her religious family (Catholic, not Jewish, but the emphasis on marriage and kids is near identical). She is humiliated at her younger sister's wedding despite her attempts to retain her dignity. 

She also has a lot of childhood issues with abandonment that should really have been addressed earlier with a therapist, and a lot of information was unnecessarily withheld from her on that subject, but at some point she realizes that she cannot be in a relationship if she doesn't know herself. 

Now, this point is a pet peeve of mine. How can people select life partners if they don't really know themselves? A lot of what we do involves following a societal script, without much questioning. Bad4 was the first to dryly proclaim that she would get a man without blow-drying her hair every morning, and many of us choose to slightly rock the boat in multitude of harmless ways. 

For instance, there had been some mumblings during my single time for my love of colorful makeup (which, I attest, was still classy and tasteful). Han loves the painted version of me (which I rarely apply nowadays, being a dishrag of a mommy) and even recently commented that so many girls aren't into strong makeup—why is that?

Because Han and I chose to express ourselves as we did (he's a rather snazzy dresser), that was one aspect that showed how our personalities could align. We didn't suppress our identities for the sake of appearances; our appearances reflected who we were.

I see other frum girls harmlessly stepping out of line and I love it. I love how they follow their passions, and also marry happily (I'm assuming happily) as they are.  

This, Too, Shall Be Forgotten

My memory is, pardon my French, in the toilet. 

My brain is keeping only primary processing needs online. I am not, as Data would say, operating at optimal parameters. 

Han tells me that I said something and I have no memory of the conversation. He could so easily gaslight me. Maybe he has? It's possible.

I was recently scrolling through old dating posts and found it amusing that I didn't remember some of the incidents. Sure, there were some guys I remembered, but some happenings were completely erased from my memory banks. 

At the time, these occurrences were so frustrating, so all consuming, and now—they've vanished.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I haven't forgotten everything. I still have that ability to hold a grudge for nearly forever. Yes, yes, I'm working on it.

But I'm glad to see that some occurrences that had upset me so much once upon a time have faded into the ether, of no significance.

Experiences

Han and I have been mulling the significance of "experience." 

For instance, when Han was dating, he had a married friend inform him that he should be focusing on such-and-such (rather shallow criteria) and he should be trusted because, you know, he's married. 

But what his friend considered sufficient for marriage was insufficient for Han. So while his friend may have been married, his experience was not enough to be a guiding force for Han. 

And then, with Han and I now on the other side, having accumulated a wealth of dating experience between us, no one wants our advice. To have dated for so long was strictly our faults, no one wants our insight, thank you very much, have a good day. 

I thought of myself, when I went through the harrowing and traumatizing experience of childbirth (no, I did not find it "empowering" at all, it's called "back labor"), I had a whole new respect for every other woman who has done it. Especially the 20-year-olds. Never mind the teenagers. 

There are some experiences that others cannot really understand, even though they think they do. Like loss and grief. Until you've been there, you cannot chap. 

I have my judgy moments, my cut-and-dried proclamations about certain subjects, but when I've finally donned those shoes and taken a walk around the block, all I can say is "Oh." The less we know, the more we think we know. As time goes on, the more I see, the more I realize that I have to shut up. 

OK, I Take It Back

 Al tiftach peh l'Satan. 

I've found he has impeccable timing. 

Keeping in mind my prior post, announcing that I am not working on myself right now, thank you very much, I was, just yesterday, thrust into a situation in which I would have to work on myself. 

A week before Rosh HaShana, I was tested. It was definitely a test. 

But I'm not sure on what subject. 

Nor do I know what the right answer was. 

Did I pass? I have no idea. Could I have done more? Should have done less? Who knows? 

There are times in life when it is clear what the "right" thing to do is. But more often, it's murky. On the one hand . . . on the second hand . . . on the fifteenth hand . . .  

It's a miracle I sleep at all. 

I suppose I have to be reminded from time to time (or often) not to get smug about anything. Because it's always when I've decided to relax in some way, whether it be mentally, spiritually, emotionally, physically, something comes flying at me like a bat outta hell to get me to wake up. 

Maybe that's what my test was? A friendly reminder? Hm.

In any case, a goodly year to all. 

Oh, and while I have you, please give this shiur by Rabbi Joey Haber a try. I managed to squeeze him in while driving to an appointment, and he's da bomb. This one is excellent, too. 

No "Growth" For Me

I've been wondering if I should feel like a "bad Jew." 

I don't mean pork, obviously. I mean in that once I had kids I've been in, as my friend describes, "survival mode." All day, all night, it's about keeping my offspring alive and somewhat content. It's a full time job.  

The shiurim I used to listen to have fallen to the wayside. When can I listen to them? How could I even hear them, with two loud babies? 

Even my reading material—when I finally get a chance to read, I need something light and escapist. I spend all day tending to the needs of two self-centered creatures; when I get the chance, I want my mind to unspool, not get worked up about my failings. 

Then I saw a reel on IG from a frum woman who feels exhausted from the constant emphasis on "growth" (I personally hate that word; I've always associated them with tumors). Are we ever permitted to just . . . be?

It's not like I'm twiddling my thumbs. I spend my days telling myself not to lose it with Ben, not to lose it with Ben, not to lose it with Ben, only to lose it with Ben. He's testing boundaries right and left, and it's testing my temper. 

It's not like I feel guilty. I come from European stock, which means they find the highest value in mothers killing themselves for the next generation, without demanding more.

Elul is a conversation of dun-dun-DUN!!!, but I don't care. I don't have the energy to care. I'm tapped out. 

Because it's technically 24/7 chessed, people. I've already resigned myself that Ben will marry a girl who can't stand me and they'll rarely visit. 

I know, I know, seek professional help.

I think that many of us have a lot on our plates. Some of us are caregivers, part of the sandwich generation to boot. They are asking God for assistance just to get through the day, and can't spare a thought to spiritual improvement. 

In a funny twist, I find that I'm in a better frame of mind on the Yomim Noraim than I used to. Pre-motherhood: Invariably, at davening, someone would bring their kids, make a racket, disturb my prayer, and make me so angry I knew I failed the divine test. For the last few years I've been home, in pajamas, davening sporadically, taking care of my offspring, but calm and mellow and exuding peace and love to all humankind (sort of). 

Last year my sister-in-law told me, "I've turned into you!" Now that her youngest is old enough she's started going to back to shul on Rosh HaShana/Yom Kippur, only to be driven mad by the antics of children. 

"The munching of the chips—the popping of those sensory toys—I just can't—" 

Maybe it's best that I'm home, doing mundane things on a sacred day. But the work is sacred to, in its own way.

Who Am I?

I would think, that at my age, I would know myself by now. I mean, I'm me, right, so if I don't know myself, who will? (That sounds rather Pirkei Avos-y.)

But then I surprise myself. 

So, long story. 

Ma used to be finicky about certain things. She couldn't stand to wear her sheitel over three hours. Sunglasses were carefully selected, as she would feel the weight on her nose. Stockings? Torture. Whenever she walked in the door, her shoes were removed immediately. She even drove with one shoe kicked off.

Then a granddaughter cropped up who, from toddlerhood, couldn't stand socks and shoes. We once took her to a restaurant, where she matter-of-factly removed her footwear, handed them to Ma, and spent the meal happily barefoot. 

"Sensory," her older sister explained, about 12 herself at the time. 

It was the first time I had heard the term. I'm a child of the '80s, where EI and all that jazz wasn't a "thing." People just . . . had different quirks. Oh, so funny, the two-year-old can't stand shoes! Ha ha! 

In my case, for instance, I can't stand having hair resting on my neck. It really really bugs me. That's why I opted for high ponies while I was single. Once I got sheitels it became clear why Ma couldn't stand them. They're so oppressive! When I actually don my wig (which is rarely) I count down the three hours until I've reached my limit. (Han is very sad I wear it so rarely. Tough.)

I was once discussing it with Han, how I can't function when hair is on my neck. 

"You're sensory," he said, in a casual, but-of-course tone.

I stared at him.

I remained mute as the realization hit. I'm sensory. Like my mother before me. 

I had heard the term before. But I never connected it to me. Sure, Ma was sensory. But me, too? 

It's not a major epiphany. But I went from "Oh, I can't stand having hair on my neck" to "I'm sensory, I can't wear a wig every day." "Sensory" gives a validity to personal preferences, rather than my being a pitchetch. 

I'm 36, and now I've figured out that I'm sensory. Nice to meet you. 

I wonder what traits I'll figure out when I'm 40.